


Broken Eyes Shine Too

by WintersCurse



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other, Poly dead men, T is only for swearing, War Era, alcohol consumption, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintersCurse/pseuds/WintersCurse
Summary: Ghastly has been in better safehouses, but even the worst, most boring safehouse he's ever been in can't stop his (incredibly immature) lovers from making things slightly more entertaining and maybe Ghastly loves these idiots a lotMaybe[Otherwise known as, Ghastly is very whiney for 1.5k]
Relationships: Erskine Ravel/Ghastly Bespoke/Saracen Rue/Dexter Vex/Larrikin/Anton Shudder, The Dead Men - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7
Collections: Skulduggery Pleasant Fic Exchange 2020





	Broken Eyes Shine Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Realismreading](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Realismreading/gifts).



> Wow this has got to be the fluffiest thing I've ever written
> 
> Merry Christmas Realismreading, I hope you enjoy!!!

Ghastly was certain the quality of safehouses was going downhill. 

The first safehouse he’d stayed in, all those years ago, had been a cute little villa in France. The yellow walls had been covered with the cutest plants, and the wooden veranda overlooked the sea. It was well furnished, and there had been enough room for the Dead Men to not be constantly on top of each other. And the best part had been a kitchen with enough food to keep them satisfied for months. 

But this safe house? 

Ghastly wasn’t sure if it even classified as a house, for a start. 

It was less of a house and more of a singular room. A very tall, very cold singular room at that. The door had exactly 57 locks, of varying types and difficulties, and if someone miraculously got through that, there was a metal bar across it, and spikes on the floor in front of it. Ghastly was too scared to ask how they were supposed to leave. 

The floor was too cold to walk barefoot, and made of a collection of multicoloured pebbles and shells and stones, designed to horribly clash with the birch wood walls. It was completely bare, and the only window was boarded up with planks more nail than wood. 

And, because it had to be as much of a crime against humanity as possible, it had a balcony made of the same weird pebbles ringing around the inside walls. It was thin, with a tiny hole next to the wall, which presumably used to have a ladder in it so one could climb up onto the balcony. Now, the only way to get up was to scramble up the wall and hope for the best. 

The entire place gave Ghastly a migraine just trying to imagine what could have possibly been going through the designers’ heads. 

Safehouse service was apparently another declining business. Ghastly didn’t even know where he was, or why they were holed up in the safehouse to begin with. 

But Skulduggery had gone walkabouts only hours before they'd left, leaving him experienced soldiers that acted like children who’d been allowed in a pool full of sugar. 

He loved them, really, but they were almost as stupid as whoever had designed the safehouse. 

Larrikin was sitting crossed-legged on the railing of the balcony. His suspenders were hanging by his waist in a way that was surely a safety hazard of some description, and he was stacking as many folded coats as he could on his head. 

How he hadn’t fallen off yet was a miracle. 

Saracen and Dexter were on the other side of the balcony, chatting noisily, both bundled up in fur coats they’d stolen from an excursion in Russia. 

Excursion in the most dirty, sexual way possible, Ghastly was sure. There wasn’t a mission that went by where Saracen didn’t go into an impossible situation with nothing but a wink and a cocky smile, and leave successful with a new tally on his body count. 

They’d somehow managed to make planes out of blankets, and were throwing them off the balcony to see which went the furthest. 

Somehow, they never made it very far. It was a very surprising shock. 

At least it was better than the spitting competition. Or the spontaneous rope-free abseiling. 

Ghastly would’ve liked to say Erskine and Anton were being more mature. Afterall, as a very mature human being himself, he would surely love other very mature human beings. 

Unfortunately, the world is very rarely kind to Ghastly. 

They were sitting in one corner, barricaded from reach by everyone’s bags. At first glance, it seemed like a quiet, mature, conversation. The type of conversation Ghastly could applaud. 

At first glance. 

But Erskine’s whispers were harsh and fast, his arms flailing everywhere, and Anton seemed on the verge of giggles. 

How, oh how, did Ghastly end up with the most immature people on the planet. 

He, himself, was very mature of course. And he was proving it by writing a list of all the style crimes the safehouse was committing, and he planned on sending it to Deuce as soon as possible. 

The absolute height of maturity. 

Ignoring the shuffling and rustling and laughter of his _incredibly_ childish friends, he focused all his attention on the list. This would be the best list Deuce had ever seen. 

A list he could not _possibly_ ignore. Or forget. Or “accidentally” lose. 

It would _not_ be like the list about the sins of Serpine’s wardrobe. 

“Oi! Ghostie boy!” Larrikin called. “Get that juicy ass over here.” 

All five of them were now sitting on the floor, far too close for any sort of personal bubble. Dexter was half in Saracen’s lap, the two of them wrapped up in the same fur coat. Erskine, however, was fully in Anton’s lap, though Anton seemed to have no idea where he was supposed to put his hands and was instead waving them about awkwardly. Surprisingly, Larrikin had the most space, despite him engaging in a feet war with Saracen. 

As Ghastly walked over, Saracen waved the bottle of whiskey high in the air. 

“Can’t believe I actually snuck this through,” he laughed. “Even more surprised Skul didn’t rat me out.” 

“Ah,” Dexter shook his head. “Betrayal is a very unbecoming trait. Even on our favourite skeleton, though he will not hear it.” 

“Where is our favorite skeleton,” Erskine asked carefully. 

Ghastly could only shrug and snatch the bottle out of Saracen’s hands. 

They fell into a rhythm of laughter, and stories told maybe a few too many times, and songs they’d all forgotten the tune to. There were words exchanged through only glances, and smiles that were reserved for only moments like this. 

It was jarring, sometimes, seeing them like this- an open bottle of whiskey between them, and wry smiles that shone far too bright in the darkness of the war. 

A light in their eyes, that too many times Ghastly had seen cracked and broken and smashed. 

It was odd, seeing Anton’s fond eyerolls, and amused smile he tried so hard to keep hidden. It’d taken years for any of them to see that smile, and even now, Ghastly was far more used to the carefully grim mask he wore on the battlefield, or the tiredness that came after the gist or a nightmare. 

There was a strangeness in Saracen’s laughter as he picked up the bottle, an unfamiliar lightness in his eyes as he took another drink. The last time Ghastly had seen Saracen drink they’d been in the dark, with nothing but broken whispers and tears and shards of painful memories for company. 

Erskine’s soft laughter fought battles with the still healing wounds that covered his entire body, all carefully hidden below bandages and cloth. It was strange, how someone’s laughter could sound similar to their cries, and Ghastly found himself almost reaching out to Erskine’s side, trying to reassure him that he was safe with them, and far away from Nye. 

It was still a shock for Ghastly to see Larrikin, sometimes. It’d been months, but he was always expecting to see a skinny shadow with long dark hair and a careful demeanor, not the bubbly, freckled, ginger mess that was Larrikin. And though Larrikin’s laughter was frequent and his mocking so often it became obnoxious, somehow it was never quite as free as it was right then. 

Dexter’s bright smile only highlighted the hollows in his cheeks. It was a tragedy, Ghastly thought sometimes. Dexter had come to the Dead Men young and handsome and confident. Now, he was just a shattered shell of who he used to be, carefully kept together by a facade that would snap when the weight got too much. 

But as the sweet smokey taste of whiskey took over his senses and the sharp edges of the room faded, all Ghastly could think about was the good times. 

About the blush that had covered Larrikin’s face the first time Ghastly had kissed his cheek. 

About the gentle relieved feeling as Ghastly held Erskine in his arms after his death had been declared months ago. 

About the first time Anton had complimented him- an offhand compliment about his colour choices on his outfit, barely even noticeable, but a compliment nonetheless

About singing around a burnt out fire with his closest friends- no, his _lovers_. About the morning he’d woken up in bed beside Saracen and there’d been no strained conversation or rush to get dressed, just a gentle caring in the way their hands met. About the overcooked breakfasts and the fires they’d had to put out and the laughters they couldn’t contain as they subtly made fun of official people in meeting rooms. About how every time Ghastly had been in hospital, his lovers had been right there beside him the whole time. 

And as they laughed and drank and played stupid games with rules that changed every time someone lost, Ghastly was happy. 

He was happy and safe and unafraid. 

Within the laughter of his lovers, he found home.


End file.
